


Right Here, Love

by earlgreytea68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8437243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: In which Eames throws a Halloween party for, apparently, eleventy billion of his closest friends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently love to write Halloween fics. I knew I had to write one for HGTV verse, but I also wanted to write a canon one where the gang all goes to a Halloween party. This was supposed to be a fun lark and it was originally going to be called "A Ghoulishly Good Time" but then it got to be all about ~feelings, oops.

“What the fuck is this?” said Arthur. 

He actually said it out loud, even though he was all alone, standing outside by his mailbox, and probably looked like a crazy person talking to his own mail. 

In fact, yes, he was pretty sure Carol next door just gave him a disapproving look from where she was getting out of her car. But Carol had never approved of him. Probably because he refused to go out with Carol’s daughter. 

Arthur ignored Carol and her look in favor of staring down at the piece of paper in his hand. Then, frowning thunderously, he carried the paper and the rest of his mail into his house, shut the door, and immediately called Eames. 

Eames answered with a jovial, “Darling!” 

“What the fuck is this?” said Arthur. 

“I take it you received my invitation.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” said Arthur. Because it was clearly an invitation. Which was ridiculous. It was a hand-written invitation to a Halloween party. It had _dancing skeletons_ on it. 

“Are you RSVP-ing?” 

“No, I’m not fucking—What are you up to?”

“It’s a Halloween party, Arthur. Why are you so incredibly suspicious? I worry for you, petal, I really do.” Eames sounded mournful. 

Arthur ignored his melodrama. The invitation was filled out in Eames’s handwriting, although he’d also written an enthusiastic all-caps “EAMES!” in the “Given by:” blank. The address was in England. Arthur didn’t immediately recognize it as one of Eames’s houses. He’d have to look it up. “You’re hosting a Halloween party?”

“Didn’t the invitation make it clear, darling?” 

“The invitation with the dancing skeletons? That invitation?” 

“And the puppy wearing a pumpkin for a hat,” said Eames. “Did you like that bit?” 

“‘Have a ghoulishly good time,’” Arthur read off the bottom of the invitation. 

“You’re not reading that with the proper spooky enthusiasm,” said Eames.

“Is that what this font is meant to indicate? ‘Read with spooky enthusiasm’?”

“It’s a font of creepy fun. Like my Halloween party will be. Are you coming?” 

“Come off it,” Arthur said, tossing the invitation to his table. “You’re not actually hosting a Halloween party, so what are you up to?” 

“I’m hurt. I most definitely am hosting a Halloween party. And I invited you because of our status as friends.”

Arthur snorted. “Me and who else?” 

“You and my other friends.” 

“You don’t have any friends.” 

“Again: I’m hurt. I have more friends than you do.” 

“I have never claimed to want more friends,” Arthur replied. “Anyway, I have Carol.”

“Carol your next-door neighbor who hates you because you won’t go out with her daughter?” 

Arthur blinked. “How do you know that?” 

“I make friends at work, unlike you,” said Eames, ignoring Arthur’s question. 

“Friends at work? Wait a second, are you inviting a bunch of dreamsharers to this Halloween party?” 

“Who else would I invite?” 

“So you’re throwing a Halloween party for criminals?”

“I prefer to think of us as cheerful miscreants,” said Eames. 

“The laws of various nations say otherwise,” said Arthur. 

“Are you coming to my Halloween party or not?” asked Eames. 

Arthur looked at the date of the party. “Nothing better to do,” he said. 

“Excellent,” said Eames. “Wear a costume.” 

***

Arthur, suspicious, still didn’t quite believe this wasn’t some kind of trick. Surely Eames was not hosting a dreamshare-wide Halloween party at some unknown British estate (Arthur looked it up; Eames definitely did not own that estate, but it did look like a great place for a party). 

So Arthur called Cobb. Cobb talked for twenty minutes about the various difficulties of his life. Arthur eventually said, “Uh-huh. Did you get invited to Eames’s Halloween party?”

“Eames’s what? Is Eames having a Halloween party? He’s having a Halloween party and didn’t invite me?” 

So then Arthur spent twenty minutes assuring Cobb that he was well-liked and Eames definitely would have invited him if he was actually having a Halloween party, which he clearly wasn’t. 

Except, Arthur considered once he got off the phone with Cobb, Eames didn’t actually like Cobb. The fact that Cobb hadn’t been invited to a party didn’t necessarily mean that Eames wasn’t having a party. It seemed likely to Arthur, upon reflection, that Eames wouldn’t have invited Cobb. 

So Arthur called Ariadne. “Have you been invited to Eames’s Halloween party?” he asked. 

“Yes!” said Ariadne, sounding delighted. “It’s going to be awesome! Wasn’t the invitation the cutest thing?” 

Arthur sat at his kitchen table and frowned. He wasn’t sure what he’d wanted here. Had he wanted this to all be an elaborate trick to lure him into Eames’s house? Had he wanted it to be a _private_ party? Surely it was a good thing that there was an actual party. Right? “So there really is a party,” he said reflectively. 

“Of course there’s a party! Did you think he was lying about it? You have trust issues.”

“I steal people’s deepest darkest secrets for a living,” Arthur pointed out. 

“Whatevs,” said Ariadne. “Are you going to the party?” 

“I guess so,” said Arthur. “I mean, I said I would.” 

“You have to wear a costume, you know.” 

Arthur frowned harder. “I know. It says it on the invitation. Right underneath the black cat holding a frog.”

“Isn’t that the _cutest_ thing?”

“Why is the cat holding a frog?”

“Don’t be so literal,” said Ariadne. “And don’t get too stressed out about the costume.” 

“Why would I get stressed out about the costume?” asked Arthur, frowning especially hard at the kitten on the invitation. 

“You don’t seem like a costume person.”

“What is that supposed to be mean?”

“Some people are costume people. Some people become other people without effort. Like, Eames is going to be fabulous at Halloween costumes. But you like being you. I mean, it doesn’t make you _boring_ or anything, it’s just who you are.”

Which sounded exactly like it made him boring. 

Arthur frowned and frowned and frowned at the invitation. Eames was throwing a party and all of dreamshare (except for Cobb) was going to go and they were going to expect Arthur to show up in a non-costume and be a stick in the mud. Eames had probably set this whole thing up just to make Arthur feel like an idiot. 

***

So Arthur decided to feel like an idiot all on his own. Eames was being sly and passive-aggressive with this weird Halloween party thing? Well, fine. Two could play at that game. Arthur was going to call his bluff. 

Arthur flew to England for Eames’s party. Arthur changed into his Halloween costume. Arthur took a fucking limo to Eames’s party estate. If he was doing this, he was doing it in _style_. 

He’d decided to be fashionably late, because that was a thing people did, and anyway, he didn’t want to be the first person there and just stand around being uncomfortable with Eames. So when he got there, the party was in full swing. Eames had clearly gone all out. He actually had search lights sweeping the sky overhead. Every light was on in every window of the huge estate house. Jack o’lanterns were littered all over the grounds, and dreamsharing’s best and brightest had spilled out over the lawn, laughing loudly and raucously. There was a fucking _live band_ playing “Monster Mash” when Arthur got out of his limo, which, seriously?

And there was a bouncer at the door who asked blandly for Arthur’s invitation. 

Arthur lifted an eyebrow at him, because, really? 

The bouncer backed down. 

The inside of the house was hot and crowded. Arthur recognized many of the people there—he and Eames had worked widely but also in the same overlapping circles—but there were some who surely were not dreamsharers. There was no sign of Eames, and Arthur admitted he was looking for him avidly. The costume had been mostly for Eames’s benefit. 

As he pushed and squeezed his way past people, he was conscious of the ones who knew him falling suddenly silent to stare after him. At one point he asked a chemist he’d worked with many times before where the bar was, and she gave directions, then did a double-take, then said, “ _Arthur_?” 

He thought he was pleased with the reaction but the truth was he only cared about Eames’s reaction and, well, that was true of most things in his life, which was something he didn’t say out loud. 

He finally managed to push his way to a bar where he was handed a bright orange martini. 

“What the hell is this?” he asked. 

“It’s a pumpkin spice martini. Cocktail of the night.” 

Arthur handed that monstrosity back to the bartender and said, “Just give me straight-up vodka. Like, an entire tumbler of it. Actually, are you allowed to just hand out the bottle?” 

The bartender gave him a sardonic look but gave him an extremely generous pour of vodka. 

Arthur turned with his vodka and bumped right into Ariadne, dressed as a black cat. 

“Sorry,” she said, backing up. “I didn’t-- _Arthur_?” Her jaw dropped very satisfyingly. 

“Hi,” he said. “Happy Halloween. Or whatever.” 

“What are you…” Ariadne took in his costume, eyes wide. “Wow. Has Eames seen you?” 

“I haven’t seen Eames,” said Arthur, trying not to sound sour over that. “Is he even here?” 

“Yeah, he’s…” Ariadne waved her hand around, still drinking in Arthur’s costume. “I don’t know, he’s around somewhere handling hosting duties.” 

“You’re holding up the line, Ari,” said Yusuf, slipping up behind Ariadne. And then blinking at Arthur. “Wow,” he said. 

“You are also dressed as a cat,” Arthur remarked. 

“Yusuf likes cats,” said Ariadne. 

“Has Eames seen you?” Yusuf asked Arthur. 

“Not yet,” said Ariadne. 

“How would I have found Eames?” asked Arthur. “This party has the population of a small city in attendance.” 

“He’s probably at the swimming pool,” said Ariadne. 

“Of course this place has a swimming pool,” sighed Arthur. 

“It’s an indoor swimming pool,” said Ariadne. 

“And of course it’s an indoor swimming pool,” said Arthur. 

“Are you going in search of Eames?” asked Yusuf. “Can we tag along? I would like to be there when Eames sees you.” 

Ariadne elbowed Yusuf. “Don’t you think Arthur and Eames want some alone time?” 

“No,” said Arthur. “We don’t want alone time. There’s seven thousand people at this party, Eames doesn’t care if he sees me.” 

“Eames definitely cares if he sees you,” said Yusuf. 

It was weird, that Arthur was in such a terrible mood, but he’d honestly dressed up for Eames, and he’d never even seen Eames, and he was never going to find Eames in this teeming mass of humanity, and he didn’t know why he was upset that Eames had invited lots of people to this party but he _was_. 

“I am going to go drink vodka alone in the dark somewhere,” Arthur announced decisively. 

“No,” said Ariadne. “Don’t. Find Eames and—”

“He’s around here somewhere,” said Arthur. “If he wants to find me, I’m sure he’ll accomplish it. There’s little Eames doesn’t accomplish when he wants to. I need more vodka,” Arthur told the bartender. 

***

The gardens were dark and stupidly crowded with couples who seemed to think it was a totally okay place to have sex. Like, didn’t the house have a profusion of bedrooms they could have been in? Arthur found an unpopulated spot by a fountain and drank his vodka and tried not to think about whether Eames was off somewhere in the dark with someone who wasn’t him. 

This was inconvenient, Arthur thought. All of these people everywhere. Eames should have just called him up and suggested they work a job over Halloween together. That would have been preferred. They could have holed up in Arthur’s hotel room while Arthur researched and Eames pestered him and it would have been perfect. 

Arthur sighed. He and Eames were supposed to work together. Arthur was only supposed to have the rest of the team to dodge to get Eames by himself. Arthur didn’t want to have all of humanity to fight against to get Eames by himself. It was easy to think he was special and unique when it was him and Eames on a job, when the ease with which he could distract Eames from the others, peel him away, made Arthur feel powerful and singular. Arthur didn’t like to think of how many people had that ability, of how many people thought, in those moments when Arthur wasn’t there, that Eames was especially _theirs_ , that those crooked teeth and lit-up smiles and crinkling gray-blue-green eyes were just for them. Eames had a million people he bestowed those smiles and eyes on. Eames knew their potent power. Eames had a sailor in every port, and Arthur was just a pleasant hub, no more, no less. 

And it was stupid that Arthur was out there in the dark in Eames’s fake garden thinking like this, as if he and Eames had some kind of relationship beyond the professional, because they _didn’t_ , and that was _fine_ , that had always been _fine_. 

“There you are,” said a voice that wasn’t Eames’s. 

Ryan’s. One of the newer, up-and-coming extractors. Arthur had worked with him and found him a bit too all-American boyish for Arthur’s personal taste but undeniably talented when it came to extraction. He needed a bit of refinement, a bit of experience, a bit of the roughness that being knocked around some would bring to his polish. Arthur had therefore tried to work with him quite a bit, because there was no one better than Arthur at breaking in an extractor the right way. He knew Eames had also worked with him quite a bit, because it was important that an extractor be taught how to work with a forger who was doing things right. 

“Rumor said you were out here,” said Ryan. 

“Did it?” asked Arthur, finishing up his vodka. 

“Rumor said you were out here barely dressed,” said Ryan, sitting familiarly on the bench next to Arthur. 

“It’s a costume party,” Arthur pointed out. “Everyone is barely dressed. I’m pretty sure I saw someone dressed as Michaelangelo’s David.” 

“Brilliant costume,” said Ryan. “I bet Eames is kicking himself he didn’t think of it.” 

Arthur had thought the same thing, so he didn’t say anything. 

“So,” said Ryan, leaning back on the bench, fidgety and awkward. 

Arthur was suddenly, abruptly, _incandescently_ annoyed. He’d been annoyed all evening, but this felt like his final straw. Rumor said he was waiting barely dressed in the dark and fucking _Ryan_ was who’d sought him out. _Ryan_. Not Eames, wherever the fuck Eames was. 

“Okay,” said Arthur, tossing his glass away. “Let’s do this.” And kissed Ryan. 

“Oh,” mumbled Ryan, sounding like he couldn’t believe his luck, and then kissed him back. 

And it was all wrong. Everything about it was _terrible_. This was all _so stupid_. Ryan was perfectly attractive and had wanted Arthur for a while and Arthur knew it and Arthur knew he looked good and this was so laughably easy, he could totally get himself laid right now, and he _didn’t want to_. 

“Fuck,” he bit out, pushing away from Ryan and then scrambling on top of him, still annoyed with himself, pulsing with frustration and irritation. 

“Christ,” said Ryan, sounding shocked. “Arthur, if you knew how much I—”

“Shut up,” said Arthur cruelly. “Don’t talk.” He kissed him again and again and again and Ryan responded desperately, whimpering and moaning and dragging at Arthur’s skin. 

And it was _no good_. 

Arthur pulled back from the kisses. 

Ryan panted, “You look amazing like this. Do you know how amazing you look?” 

He did, actually. And he hated it. Everyone was right: Arthur hated costumes. Arthur had the him he was every day and that was costume enough for him. This, the rest of it, was too much. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, horrified at himself. What was he _doing_?

“What?” said Ryan blankly. 

Arthur clambered off of him, appalled, and pulled his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m…drunk.” Which he was, partly. Not really. Not nearly enough. 

“Arthur.” Ryan sounded bewildered. “Let’s—”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said desperately. “I’m so sorry, Ryan.” And then he basically fled. Which was great. That was going to do fucking _wonders_ for his reputation. 

And _of course_ while he was trying to find his way through the mass of partygoers back to the front of the house so he could get his crazy limo and go home and take off his costume and be himself again instead of this weird, off-kilter, insane version of himself, _of course_ that was when he ran into Eames. 

Literally. 

Eames steadied him with two hands and stepped back and said, “Arthur—” and then fell silent as he swept his eyes up and down Arthur’s costume. 

Arthur _hated_ this fucking costume. What had gotten into him? 

“I, er…” said Eames, and then, “Well.” And then nothing else. 

“It’s Rocky Horror Picture Show,” snapped Arthur. 

“I…got the reference, thanks. I…huh.” 

Arthur wanted to strangle that expression off of Eames’s face. Arthur hated that expression, the way he was looking at Arthur as if he’d never seen him before. Arthur wanted back the way Eames looked at him like he knew every thought in Arthur’s head, like he knew him backward and forward and upside-down, like Arthur didn’t have to speak because Eames just _got_ him. 

Arthur looked at the tuxedo Eames was wearing, and it was splendidly cut and beautifully styled, and it made Arthur want to strangle him even more. “Oh, my God,” said Arthur, “you dressed as James Bond.” 

“Yes,” Eames said, still with the same expression on his face. “Are you alright? You look—”

“I look fucking fantastic,” Arthur interrupted sharply, because he _did_ , he knew he looked good in lingerie, and he was good at makeup application, and maybe making out with Ryan had disheveled him a little bit but he knew he looked good, and he’d tried to look good for Eames, and instead Eames had that stupid odd expression on his face. He did a full turn, viciously, for Eames’s benefit, and then shot out at him, “Happy?”

Eames stared at him. “Darling—”

“For the record, I hate Halloween, okay? I hate costumes and dressing up and parties. And that tuxedo is a Givenchy and I hate that most of all.” 

“You don’t like Givenchy?” asked Eames. 

“I don’t even like you to _say_ Givenchy,” said Arthur decisively, because he _didn’t_ , because Eames said _Givenchy_ and Arthur’s body heard _foreplay_ , which was ridiculous. 

“Oh,” said Eames, eyebrows raised. 

“I’m going now,” said Arthur. 

“Going where?” asked Eames. 

Arthur didn’t answer. He just went. 

Which was a bad idea because he found himself entering the house through some deserted door, which would have been nice, because he got to avoid people, except for the fact that the house was a huge labyrinth and he couldn’t find his way back to the main part of it. 

Finally he gave up. He was in a room with a grand piano and not much else, and he figured he might as well play. It would kill some time, and when he was calmer he would find his way out of the house. 

Arthur sat and cracked his knuckles and put his fingers on the keys and took a deep breath, and then he started playing. Vampire Weekend. Because who _did_ give a fuck about an Oxford comma?

“Are you playing angry indie music on my grand piano?” asked Eames. 

And of course Eames would track him down now. Arthur spent all evening waiting for Eames to track him down, and nothing. But when Arthur wanted to hide, Eames would naturally be unerringly there. 

“No,” said Arthur, not pausing in his song. “Because it isn’t your grand piano.” 

Eames chuckled. Arthur heard it, low and warm, as he heard Eames’s steps into the room. 

Eames came around and leaned on the piano and looked at Arthur. 

Arthur said, “Are you going to say, ‘Arthur, darling, I had no idea you played’?”

“No,” Eames replied. “I knew you play. I didn’t think I’d ever get to see it. There are a lot of things happening tonight that I never thought I’d get to see. You in lingerie, for instance.”

Arthur stopped playing and frowned at Eames. “Fuck you, you know.” 

“I got the gist of that out there when you told me how much about this party you hated.” 

“I’m a fun person. I can wear fun costumes. I can go to fun parties.” 

Eames’s eyes were sharp. “Why do you sound so defensive about that? Do you think I disagree? You are the most fun person I know.”

“Stop it,” said Arthur. “You’ve mocked me enough for one night.” 

“What have I done?” Eames demanded. “I had a party.” 

_I wanted it to be a party for us_ , thought Arthur. _I wore lingerie for you because I thought you wanted to lure me here. I thought it was all about me._

Arthur felt like an idiot saying that, so instead he started playing “Goldfinger” on the piano. 

Eames snorted. “How can you think you’re not fun? You’re hilarious.” 

“I _am_ fun,” Arthur retorted. “That’s the _point_.” He kept his eyes on the keys. 

Eames, after a second, nudged his way onto the piano bench with Arthur. Arthur let him, because Arthur liked the feeling of Eames close beside him. 

Eames said softly, “Fill me in here, pet. What have I missed? What did I do?” 

Arthur shook his head. Arthur stopped playing. Arthur closed his eyes. Arthur said, “Why are you in this room?”

“Because you’re in this room.”

Arthur shook his head again. “You have an entire house full of guests out there. You have a million people here.” 

“Right,” said Eames. “I’m throwing a party. A party at which I’ve spent all night looking for you and you’ve been avoiding me.” 

Arthur’s eyes flew open. “Avoiding you?” 

Eames looked annoyed. “Everyone I talked to said, ‘Have you seen Arthur yet? Have you seen Arthur? You’ll love Arthur’s costume. You must find Arthur.’ Every bloody person at this party saw you except for me.” 

“That wasn’t by design.” 

“Was it by design that you went off to hide in the gardens, the place I was least likely to be? I got your message, loud and clear. If you didn’t want to come to my party, you didn’t have to come, Arthur.” 

Arthur stared at Eames. His heart was pounding unnaturally loudly in his ear. He thought vaguely that he should start playing again but he couldn’t. He was focused entirely on Eames, Eames looking glum and sulky next to him, like Eames thought _he’d_ been the rejected one. “I thought you’d come find me,” he said, breathless and dry-mouthed. “You always come find me. I was waiting for you.” 

“For me?” said Eames sardonically. “Or for every member of dreamsharing who’s been drooling openly over you all night? It was hard for me to tell.” 

“How could it be hard for you to tell?” asked Arthur, astonished. “Do you think I would dress up in lingerie for _them_?”

Eames blinked at him. “What?” 

“I wore it for you,” Arthur said. “Of _course_ I wore it for you.” 

Eames was staring now. It was dim in the room and Arthur couldn’t quite read his eyes but they felt quick and sharp on Arthur’s face. “You wore it for me.” 

Arthur felt stupid at having to spell this out. “It doesn’t—”

“I threw a party,” Eames said slowly. “I invited all these people. And you wore lingerie to it. For me.” 

“I wasn’t thinking,” Arthur said. 

“Oh, fuck,” Eames whispered, and suddenly his hand was on the back of Arthur’s neck, suddenly he had drawn Arthur in so close that Arthur’s entire field of vision was nothing but Eames. “I read this all wrong, didn’t I? I thought you were worried the party was a trick, so I made sure it was a real party. But you _wanted_ the party to be a trick. Fuck, fuck, fuck, did I ruin this?” Eames looked suddenly desperate. “Tell me how to fix it. What can I do to fix it?” Eames’s hand shifted to cup Arthur’s cheek. He brought his other hand up to Arthur’s other cheek. “Why can’t I fucking get it right with you? Every other person I’ve ever wanted, I just… Fuck, Arthur.” Eames suddenly leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, breathing unsteadily. 

Arthur kind of wanted to wonder if he was still drunk, but at the same time he knew that he was abruptly stone-cold sober, because here was Eames, saying these amazing things, and Arthur would never have imagined, not in any drunken musings, anything like this. He lifted his hands up and fastened them loosely around Eames’s wrists and said, “Eames.” Just that. Just Eames. But he meant it to encompass an entire universe of things he’d always wanted to say and always been terrible at saying. 

Eames seemed to get it. His breath quickened incrementally, and then he said, “Arthur, Arthur, darling,” and shifted his hands to tangle them into Arthur’s hair. 

Arthur let him, sliding his hands over Eames’s shoulders, settling them on his chest. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way—I’ve fucked so much up—but I don’t want to kiss you for the first time while you look like someone else. I have, for so long, wanted to kiss _you_.” 

Arthur’s breath caught and he shifted away from Eames and he said, “I am going to give you the fuck of your _life_ for saying that.” 

Eames blinked dazedly. “Oh. Okay. Good, then.” 

“Good,” Arthur said, and smiled like an idiot, too dazzled to do anything else. He combed his hands over Eames’s slicked-back hair and smiled and smiled and smiled. “I’m sorry I was a dick to you because you hosted a party. I’m sorry I’m just a dick to you in general. I’m going to work on that.” 

“Let’s start the night over,” Eames suggested. “Arthur, would you like to have a private party?” 

“Let me change into a suit,” said Arthur. 

“Let me get rid of all of my many guests,” said Eames. 

***

Arthur came back just as the sky was lightening in the far distance for dawn, face cleared of make-up, hair combed back, suit just so. Eames was in a chaise on the back veranda, just outside the circle of lights still blazing from inside the house, in the navy blue shadows of the early dawn. There was no one else around. 

Eames’s tuxedo was still entirely intact. He looked pristine and put-together, even though he was slouching a bit in the chair. You would never have known that it was the end of an all-nighter that had started with him hosting a raging party. 

He looked at Arthur and smiled. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Arthur, without preamble, straddled Eames’s lap and kissed him. And it was all _right_. Everything about this was _perfect_. Eames kissed back like a dream come true. A literal, amazing, wonderful dream come true.

Arthur pulled back and looked down at him. The dawn was already brighter than it had been. Eames’s eyes were an impossibly clear blue. 

Eames said, still smiling deeply, “Hello, Arthur.”

Arthur ran wondering fingers along Eames’s cheekbones, down his jaw, around to the curve of his ear, the smile slowly fading off of Eames’s face. “Hello, Eames,” he said gravely, as he undid Eames’s bowtie and then unbuttoned his shirt, parting it. “Hello, hello, hello,” he breathed into Eames’s skin, under his jaw, along his throat, at the irresistible curve of his collarbone. 

When Arthur remembered it later, it was sex in the fuzzy smudge of dawn, bruised with rosy fingers. Arthur went down on him, relentlessly languorous, refusing to take his eyes off of Eames watching him, refusing to relinquish a single inch until Eames looked wrecked and incoherent and Arthur’s fingers had left marks on Eames’s hips to keep them still, to keep Eames riding at the impossible edge. He remembered the way Eames kissed him, tongue across teeth, as if he was trying to swallow him whole, as his hands scrabbled at Arthur’s clothes, pushing and shoving them out of the way. He remembered the way he kissed Eames back, sinking onto him inch by excruciating inch, biting at Eames’s groans. He remembered the way Eames, a hand firm on his hip, shifted them just so, got the angle just right, to make Arthur stutter out of the kiss, arching to maximize that touch. He remembered the way Eames growled, “That’s it,” into Arthur’s skin, and sucked a bruise onto him, and Arthur made helpless breathless noises that he wasn’t sure he’d ever made before in his life, and Eames, hands so firm and sure on him, sending him shuddering with every sure stroke, mumbling into Arthur’s throat, “Fuck, yes, let me hear you, darling,” and Arthur gasping, “Jesus, Eames,” and Eames, sounding unforgivably smug and absurdly sexy, “Good?” and Arthur, sensing an orgasm just over his horizon and wanting to live in the half-life of approaching it, in the way he was swamped in sensation and all of it screamed _Eames_ into his endorphin-flushed bloodstream, heard himself say, “Where have you been—my entire life?” 

Arthur remembered saying it. He remembered the way Eames stilled those miraculous thrusts and Arthur whined with it, squirming on him, and Eames’s hands at his hips held him and Eames said, thickly, “Fuck,” and then suddenly he moved again, punishing this time, Arthur, gasping, dizzy with stimulation, trying to meet his rhythm but feeling mostly that Eames had tumbled him underwater and was dragging him along, and Eames, saying, “Right here, love. I’ve been right here,” and Arthur came untouched, burying his teeth into the cloth still covering Eames’s shoulder, and Eames bucked wildly up into him, finesse entirely vanished, and came with an endearment on his lips. 

***

Afterward, sticky and spent, the new sun warm on the back of his neck, Eames warm underneath him. 

Eames said, “I feel like I should have some sort of line about trick or treating.” 

“No,” Arthur said, and managed to lift his head up. “No lines.” 

“Not even a little tiny one?” 

“No.” 

“Did you have a good time just now?” 

“I feel like this is a line waiting to happen,” said Arthur suspiciously. 

“A ghoulishly good time, even?” 

“And there it is,” said Arthur. “You’re an idiot and I’m never fucking you again.” 

“Uh-huh,” said Eames, looking like he absolutely did not believe Arthur. “You are an obscene mess, petal, and I am going to fuck you up a million different ways.” 

Eames’s eyes looked like that was a promise and not a line. Arthur was okay with that. 

He got up off of Eames and finished shedding his clothes and said, “I heard this place has a swimming pool. I’m going to clean myself up and then I’ll show you how long I can hold my breath.” 

Eames caught his hand before he could move away, tangled their fingers together. “Where have you been my entire life?” he asked, eyes serious. 

Arthur looked at him. Arthur smoothed his tousled hair. Arthur said, “Right here, love. I’ve been right here.”


End file.
